


I could sparkle up your eye

by TenWoolf



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Blow Jobs, Doing it in a car, First Time Blow Jobs, M/M, overuse of prose, sex in a mitsubishi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-29
Updated: 2016-05-29
Packaged: 2018-07-10 21:20:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7008577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TenWoolf/pseuds/TenWoolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He hadn't thought about Kavinksy until now, for good reason. He considered how rough it would be, a drugged up lunatic with his hands all over him, and how much it would hurt. Ronan was just surprised he liked it so much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I could sparkle up your eye

**Author's Note:**

> wanted to call this "my pussy tastes like pepsi cola" but decided on the other fountain drink song by Lans.

They'd been at it for hours.

Queued sensations of torturous disappointment every time Ronan woke up in that white mitsubishi. His knuckles, paler than the paint job, clutching at some tiny version of what'll save his own hide; Gansey's goddamned camaro.

And if he had any sense he'd have slowed down on the little green pills that Kavinsky was feeding him like quarters for rounds of skee ball. The beer he tried to swallow dribbled down his chin and in the crystal clear clarity of drowsiness, he saw Kavinsky looming over him. The pecking softness of his mouth on Ronan's neck, catching droplets, wasn't enough to bring him back awake. The silhoutte of Kavinksy overtaking him was what followed him into the dream, rejecting his shadowed presence in the same shrug of a coat.

Ronan wondered if his own self followed in to K's dreams. He wondered if his raven wings littered Kavinsky's shoulders, enveloping him with feathered down that floated behind to fill the impressions of his foot prints.

He brought back one last failure before taking a breather, the twisted fun house glass that should have been the Pig's rea view mirror. He always seemed to take longer than Kavinsky, waking up to strung out twitchy heaving and cracking knuckles and sunken eyes staring at Ronan like he was on display. Kavinsky didn't stare with malicious intent like he was waiting to be caught. His gaze traveled, pawing up and down Ronan while he lay motionless, some kind of statue with an drawn out history on some plaque affixed to the dashboard. It was nice to be the one in control of the staring instead of a looking like overpriced art.

So Ronan turned on his side, splayed out so the seat hit his spine just right, and he watched the erratic breaths Kavinsky took and the hitching curve of his jeans getting painfully tight at the zipper.

He'd been around other men his entire life, knew perfectly well how to let a guy have some alone time when pitching a tent. But being there with Kavinsky made him feel childish, this shameful act a private moment to be embarrassed at witnessing.

If staring at Ronan was like admiring a statue, doing to same to Kavinsky could be likened to a quadruple speed growth of deadly bacteria in a petri dish, the thin glass barrier not enough to contain it.

And when Kavinsky inhaled what felt like the first intoxicating breath of a morning, he didn't hesitate to stare right back at Ronan. He grinned, a devilish smile fit for an omnipotent villian, perfect for his own demon self and the pleasure of his snake boy.

His hand rested in his pocket, pulling out the slick soft cover of an unpublished issue of Playboy. He waved it around like a flag, the pride of his people inbetween the pages.

"Check it, Lynch, best of the decade," Kavinsky cheered, flipping past the cover with an unamned blonde model. All of the spreads were similar, the culmination of images K'd seen matched with unreadable text in a printed font made to be illegible or read as gibberish. He tossed it to Ronan, the cover sticking to his bare chest and the shear layer of his sweat melting the cover from the middle. Ronan peeled it off himself, grainy sticky residue left on his skin. Sugar. The confectionary elegance of spun sugar to paper.

"You got a wet-nap somewhere?" Ronan asked. He tried to wipe it off his chest but his fingers acted as a bench scraper, moving it around and covering his hands. Tossing the magazine on to the dash board, he added, "Or do you only dream of porn and dope?"

"Ooh mostly its you and a lot of Dick." Kavinsky stretched back, cracking his spine and humming in the satisfaction of it.

"You are way too fixed on other guys," Ronan mutter like a quiet fact, not wanting to meet Kavinsky's all knowing stare. 

And he was staring. Kavinsky was always staring with those black and white eyes, the irises a singular pool to drown in, his scalera a tainted off-color.

"You can't keep lying to me, Lynch. You can't tell me you never thought Dick's stick shift," Kavinsky's hot breath was heavy on Ronan's shoulder. 

"I don't lie," Ronan said, his own personal tag line, worn like a pin.

"You ever lie to yourself?"

Ronan turned to meet him, Kavinsky's malodorous presence inches away with his forearm braced on the passenger seat headrest. They were both the same size, Ronan beating his height by an unnoticeable inch. But Kavinsky made him feel small and unequal. He made him feel defensive and ready to fight, every hair on end ready to stick like needles.

"You ain't even been with a girl, have you?" Kavinsky asked, knowing he hit a nerve. When Ronan didn't dignify it with an answer, just held the same immesurable gaze, he kept on, "It's a lot the same, you just gotta.."

He snaked his hand over Ronan's stomach where the sugar was tacky on his skin, ave grabbed the muscle of his hip. He dipped his head down, knocking their foreheads together and jutting his nose against Ronan's while his hand tensed and gripped at nothing. It was an excusable clumsiness, the smell of beer radiating off his tongue. The nicotine stains were gradients on his teeth.

Ronan could have enjoyed a perfectly normal life without having kissed Joseph Kavinsky. But he wasn't in full control of his mental faculties and the light touch of that mouth and those rough callouses on those fingers were winning against the arguements and insults Ronan could have been flinging. He tensed up in Kavinsky's grip, the meat of his palm and thumb grinding in to Ronan's side like he wanted to leave a bruise. His intentions started out so slow and graceless, trying to faze Ronan and feel him come apart or at least rattle him up. But then Ronan started pushing back, opening his mouth and catching his breath while Kavinsky slid his tongue in. K really wanted to rip the seams that held Ronan together.

They both tasted the same, domestic beer not losing its flavor among the snorted coke and the reminiscented sugar coating of sleeping pills. There wasn't any fight over dominance, just Kavinsky keeping himself from using his teeth save for the drag of them over Ronan's lower lip, feeling every uneven peice of tissue and vein he could pop open if he bit hard enough. He wanted to pull back and watch his mouth gape open, wanted to hear him moan like that, wanted to spit in him mouth and hear him say thank you.

He even got brave, slipping his other hand down to pass his thumb over Ronan's lip. He broke the kiss gently, pulling his mouth off and slotting his finger over teeth. He waited to see if Ronan would suckle on his finger. He was disappointed when Ronan only glared at him like a hooked goldfish.

"I really wanna see a preview of what you'll look like going down on me, princess," Kavinsky said, letting go of Ronan's waist and putting the white knuckled grip to the back of his neck. The leverage he had made everything he said seem like an order.

And Ronan didn't agree with any of it. Not a single iota of Kavinsky having control over this or any of it being anything except his idea. 

"Fuckin' ask, dipshit," Ronan spat, trying to escape Kavinsky's grip but getting throttled back to where he was wanted. And he kept up the acid burning glare, dripping venom like morning dew.

"Would you really? If I fuckin' ask?" Kavinsky stared him down, enjoying the torque of Ronan's movements in between his hands, the way he had to talk around his thumb, the way he bit down on it and saw the red bruise form.

When Ronan didn't reply, just an aggravated exhale and the concave shudder of his chest rise and fall in anticipation, Kavinsky leaned in close until their lips touched again and said, "blow me"

Kavinsky's flare for the dramatic was unprecedented but enthusiastic, an admirable trait if he was some zealous theatre student wanting to impress the cast with his antics. But right here with Ronan, who flat out didn't give a shit, it was amusing like trashy reality tv. And in comparison, Ronan's lack of enthusiasm was easy to interpret. The shift of his glare and wrinkle of his nose was the only 'yeah I'll go down on you' that Kavinsky was going to get. But it was enough.

The sudden hurl of Kavinsky's arms, a huge daunting wingspan, enveloping Ronan's torso and yanking him over the center console as rough as possible. Manhandling was painful enough without your knee going directly in to a cup holder and the ceiling working against you. Ronan's skull grazed the Mitsubishi's roof, his buzz cut passing over the textured surface made his skin crawl. But he was on top of Kavinsky, both his legs slotted on the outside. 

Kavinsky pressed forward up on Ronan, crowding him against the steering wheel, and licked a stripe up his stomach. The sugared taste still lingered among the salt of his sweat. Without warning, truly his style, he found the seat adjuster below and yanked it, watching Ronan uncomfortably fall to his knees.

"I could have just leaned over, prick," Ronan winced, knocking the back of his shoulder on the steering wheel.

"You look better from this angle," Kavinsky teased, going for his own belt buckle and zipper, feeling the heat of himself through the rough suffocating denim.

Ronan, unsure of what to do with his hand, splayed out his fingers on Kavinsky's thigh while he watched. He thought about this before, the first time he'd do to what people called experimenting. As if putting his hands on someone else's body made him a scientist or explorer. But he had thought about it, often and creatively as his inner circle could be imagined. He thought about what Adam looked like when he touched himself in that tiny apartment, made him wonder about the irony of sex above the church he prayed in.  
He thought about what Noah sounded liked when someone was inside him, if there was enough sensation in that ghostly shell to feel anything below the belt. He thought about what Blue would prefer when she had someone's weight on her chest, how hard her neon finger nails would dig in to skin and if her taste in lingerie was as eclectic as the rest of her wardrobe. And he thought about Gansey in domesticated fantasies where they'd laze in Ronan's room on his boundless bed where no one would disturb them, waxing on about dead kings while they lazily touched each other.

He hadn't thought about Kavinksy until now, for good reason. He considered how rough it would be, a drugged up lunatic with his hands all over him, and how much it would hurt. Ronan was just surprised he liked it so much.

Kavinksy pulled himself out of his jeans, not bothering to get the fabric down any further than a few breathing inches. He wasn't at full mast, just chubbed up enough to make him look excited. There wasn't any marvel at his form, the plain curve of his dick conforming to his body and the flushed color an aggravated horny blush. His foreskin hid himself, covering the crown line of his dick, a furious red beneath.

Hesitation was visible in Ronan, the complexities of his glazed over expression unreadable and vague. He was stuck in his own head, waiting to wake up with something to convince him he dreamed it. But there was a hurtle in his breath constant in its hitching, that let him be intrigued. Those tepid breaths let his slack jawed resting bitch face be excited.

And if Kavinsky wanted this to last, the misplaced affection and the ham-fisted reactions, he was going to have to be nice. Or at least a little soft to start.

Kavinsky cradled Ronan's jaw in his palm, the pad of his thumb pressed just to where his lips began. Ronan didn't have any dimples to press in like buttons, no deliberate genetic marker to make him cute and innocent. He liked it when there was, made it more fun to corrupt and paint. And in this act, Kavinsky was an artist.

"Open wide, sweetheart," he said in a hushed groan, edging his thumb inward, nail first. 

The remnants of sugar paper and engine oil were still under that nail, tastes that rolled over Ronan's tongue like a palate cleanser. It felt better this time, deliberate and sexier knowing why K was doing it, knowing what was going to come after it.

He let himself fall prey to it, slacking his mouth to let K roam him thumb over his teeth and map out his tongue. K pressed down, slow for a second and then succumbing to the pressure he wanted to inflict. K slid his thumb in, as far as he wanted to, stopping a centimeter from the uvula, gripping the bottom of Ronan's jaw with his fingers. 

He grinned while Ronan started gagging, not loosening his grip or letting Ronan snap his teeth on reflex.

"If you want it, I gotta know you ain't gonna choke." Kavinsky shook Ronan's head in a false nod.

Ronan just kept back growls and bile, or tried to. He knew if he let up it would just fuel K's lust to control, to hurt just enough to ache. He held back his gags, eased himself to breathe and took the pressure. Then he suckled when Kavinsky let his grip go slack, moved in to it like he'd seen porn stars do it, moved like K wanted him to.

"That's it..." Kavinsky exhaled, tension leaving as he relaxed. He pulled his other hand out, palming at his dick. The sensation and the sight of Ronan was turning him on more than the PlayBoy dream had. Airbrushed girls in nighties couldn't compare to the naïveté of Ronan Lynch when he was about to suck dick like a champ. 

Kavinsky pulled his thumb out, rubbing the spit slick pad of his finger over Ronan's lip, shining them up like gloss.

Ronan's mouth didn't gape, but his breathing was labored and anxious. He liked the feeling of his mouth being occupied, his tongue being crowded, the adrenaline rush of getting roughed up.

But Ronan waited, heaving his shoulders and staring at Kavinsky's smug satisfaction. He noticed how K's breathing was as unsteady as his.

K parted his mouth to say something, another kick to Ronan's ego or some tacky demand. But he didn't say anything, just migrated his grip to caress Ronan's neck. He stroked the big nerve that hid his pulse, feeling the rabbit shudder of his heart beat. He felt the hitch in Ronan's breath when he pinched the skin across his Adam's Apple.

Guiding him close, Kavinsky let his fingers settle on the back of Ronan's neck. He positioned his dick to stand tall, harder and attentive now. The two were inches from one another.

Kavinsky got bold, feeling the radiant frustration of Ronan's tethering glare. Ronan was refusing to look anywhere else, his gaze like the intensity of a stadium. So K slapped him with it, the bouncy weight of dick right against Ronan's bitchy face.

Ronan grimaced but tried not to flinch, the heat of flesh surprising him enough to lift his hand to touch where it had made contact.

But when Ronan's hand shivered on Kavinsky's thigh, he groaned out, "Don't. No hands, just... Open your mouth a little."

Ronan kept up the staring contest, feeling his nostrils flare in the tension. He let his bottom lip fall open, and then the printing kiss of Joseph Kavinsky's cock was resting on top of it. He slotted his mouth over it, enveloping the crown. 

Kavinsky tasted like sweat, the hot salt of summer seething from his pores. It was the rim of a cock tail with an acrid aroma of whiskey or vodka somewhere beneath. It was the burnt wick of a cheap candle from Dollar City where the clean linen fragrance was subtle against the scent of smoldering cinders. It was the pretty packaged candies and illuminated soda machines at the vile gas station with apathetic attendants. It was the delight of flying miles above with clouds that couldn't be charted, accompanied by the nausea of ascension.  
It was exactly as it was suppose to be, the abhorrent feeling of discomfort and the soothing disgust that it was exactly what Ronan wanted.

But it was delicious on his tongue, the blissed out affection of his saliva slicking Kavinsky up as his dribbling spit threaten to overflow at his lips. Ronan didn't take in anymore than the crown of K's dick, undulating his tongue on the underside and keeping his teeth out of the way, tracing the dorsal vein in little flicks, He wanted K to ask for it, to show him where to go.

Kavinsky's hand was still on the back of Ronan's neck, squeezing lightly on the muscle beneath, the other still holding his dick. But the slow pace was getting to him, under sensitive nerves looking for more stimulus than lazy sucking. He let his hand fall away, his loose fingers going to trace the freckled curve of Ronan's jaw line. He palmed both sides of Ronan's face, framing that virginal expression of his and how perfect he looking with his mouth occupied. Then he pried his jaw open, a short jerk that beckoned Ronan to comply. When he did, K pulled him down in increments.

Ronan tried to go down easy, thankful that Kavinsky wasn't trying to fuck his face. But when K hit the middle of his tongue he started to gag, forcing past it before he violently pulled back and gasped.

Kavinsky looked on him with conflicted derision, wanting to ruin the moment but not ready for Ronan to give up. He had plans for this boy.

"God, how do you every drink anything? I thought you'd be good at this, Lynch," K said, clicking his tongue with a scoff. He let go of Ronan entirely to rub his temples.

Ronan didn't take it at any value, much the same with everything else Kavinsky ever threw at him. He moved his hands up Kavinsky's thighs, little ministrations to calm the muscle, and took hold of his cock at the base, eliciting a hiss of intake from K.

"God, I said no hands," K retorted, vinegar in his voice but not enough to cover his amusement.

"Shut up."

**Author's Note:**

> i hope u jerkked off to this


End file.
